The Manual of Detection by Jedediah Berry

If rural nostalgia fuels the continuing appeal of Trollope or Tolkien, then its urban equivalent is most commonly found in Dickens pastiches such as Philip Pullman's Ruby in the Smoke, in Holly Black's gritty fairy stories and in the steampunk genre. These days, you can barely pick up a speculative fantasy without finding a zeppelin or a steam-robot on the cover. Containing few punks and a good many posh ladies and gents, most of these stories are better described as steam operas. The Manual of Detection formalises many of the genre's themes and includes a dash of cyberpunk noir.

Cyberpunks were what the likes of Bruce Sterling and William Gibson called themselves when first signalling their break with conventional SF. What identified cyberpunk was a sophisticated interest in current events, a guess that the Pacific Rim might soon become the centre of world politics, a keen curiosity about the possibilities of post-PC international culture and a love of noir detective fiction. Characteristically, cyberpunk revived the noir thriller and might as easily be considered a development of the mystery as of science fiction. Sterling and Gibson's The Difference Engine was an early example of cyberpunk merging into steampunk, proposing a Victorian world with Babbage computers and airships. Airships also appear in The Golden Compass and Watchmen, among other recent movies: they signify you are in an alternate reality.

Steampunk reached its final burst of brilliant deliquescence with Pynchon's Against the Day and his Airship Boys. Once the wide world gets hold of an idea, however, it can only survive through knowing irony. Its tools, its icons, its angle of attack are absorbed into the cultural mainstream. The genre has started to write about itself, the way Cat Ballou or Blazing Saddles addressed the western. Steampunk no longer examines context and history but now looks ironically at its own roots, tropes and cliches. Thankfully, it does it in a book as good as The Manual of Detection. Jedediah Berry has an ear well tuned to the styles of the detective story, and can reproduce atmosphere with loving skill.

The city in which this mystery is set is never named. There are brooding skyscrapers. It's always raining. And there appears to be no public authority save the monumental, stratified Detective Agency where Charles Unwin works as a clerk, filing reports for the sleuth to whom he's assigned, in this case the legendary Travis Sivart, famous for solving cases such as "The Oldest Murdered Man" and "The Man Who Stole November Twelfth". Unwin is fascinated by a woman he sees at Central Terminal station, where he is recruited by a detective. Someone is murdered. A brooding sense of doom dogs him as he reluctantly uncovers not only a new and terrifying case but realises many earlier famous cases were not properly solved. In a world suddenly populated by somnambulists, everyone has their alarm clock stolen. The whole city is dreaming or falling asleep at odd times. Even the hallowed Agency Manual, as Unwin discovers, contains mysteries. He encounters a femme fatale who might be on his side; a nightclub singer; two sinister former conjoined twins who drive a gaudy steam-truck; a malevolent carnival proprietor; a thieves' kitchen. Larger threats and mysteries increase.

Helped by an old museum guard and his own plucky girl assistant (every detective is issued with one), and taking his life and sanity in his hands, Unwin proves a dogged investigator. Soon, he is forced to question the truth of the Manual itself. Despite the grim, unnamed city where Unwin constantly receives contradictory or absurd instructions, this engrossing book isn't at all like Kafka. By the end, almost too many mysteries are explained. And then, at last, it stops raining and, with the novel's final brilliant revelation, the sun comes out.